The Blogger and the Baron
by Areida Rivers
Summary: Elizabeth Ross is a fashion and lifestyle blogger whose writer's block is killing her business. When her twin sister challenges her to attend a Regency ball and blog about it, Lizzy can't refuse. After falling from a carriage at the event, she wakes up to find that she's tumbled into a ball in London in 1815. Lizzy must find a way home soon or risk being stuck in the past forever.
1. Chapter 1

**The Baron and the Blogger**

 _Chapter 1_

I typed faster. The words were coming quickly now. This was going to be amazing—the best entry I'd ever written. The thing was going to be a viral sensation by morning. I could feel it.

I'd never have to work again. Never have to pose a photo for an entry, or sign up for an advertising or collaboration deal I didn't want to take. I'd finally lose fifteen pounds and get a tan. I'd definitely get a boyfriend. Maybe even a fiancé and a big, white wedding, and then babies. The whole white picket fence shebang.

This was amazing.

I took my fingers off the keys for a moment, hardly daring to breathe. My eyes skimmed the paragraphs. I scrolled up. Scanned. Scrolled down.

 _Damn it._

Who was I kidding? This was terrible. I was the worst blogger in the history of the Internet.

I scrolled back a few paragraphs and considered a rewrite. My fingers hovered over the keys, the blinking cursor mocking me and what I now realized were pathetic attempts at blogging fame and renown.

I was going to die poor, alone, and childless.

Not to be too dramatic, or anything.

I slammed the laptop shut and left it on the couch, where it seemed to stare at me in accusation as I went to the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of wine.

Red blend? Riesling? Drier white?

I considered my options.

"Probably the cab," I said aloud, into the emptiness of my apartment. I stabbed the corkscrew into the bottle and opened it, inhaling deeply as I raised the red-stained cork to my nose.

"Smells like defeat," I said again to no one. "Delicious defeat."

I poured my glass to an aggressively full level and took a few unladylike sips until the level of the liquid was low enough that I could swirl it pretentiously.

I drank the first glass a little too fast and poured another, already tipsy. I hadn't been drinking lately because I was "focusing on my writing." But now that I was a failure, what did my sobriety matter?

Halfway into the second glass, my phone buzzed. I paused the video of kittens I was watching to check the text.

My twin sister, Rebekah, had messaged me:

 _How's the work coming?_

I set my phone down noisily on the counter and leaned against the granite. I had asked to her to check on me if she thought I might not be working. Her twin senses must have been tingling.

I opened the pantry and scanned. I'd removed most of the junk food from my apartment in an effort to lose some weight, but now all I wanted was salty, greasy chips and maybe something chocolatey to top it off.

I sipped my wine and slung a few drawers open and closed again when their contents revealed only broken pencils, used pads of sticky notes, and batteries that probably didn't have any juice.

I opened another. "BINGO!" I announced.

Dark chocolate. Didn't it have antioxidants or magnesium or something? I had probably blogged about its benefits to my willing, wonderful followers at some point, but I didn't remember what I'd written.

Whatever.

I was two squares in and considering refilling my wine glass, holding my phone above my head for the perfect "my life is in shambles but isn't it adorable" selfie when the phone started buzzing.

"Shit—shit shit…" I nearly dropped it on my face but managed to swipe to answer in time.

"What are you doing?" my twin's voice demanded from the speaker.

"Writing," I lied.

"Bullshit," Bekah said.

"No, I am," I insisted. "I just got up for a bathroom break. But I've been at it for hours. I'm making huge progress. Like, lots and lots of—"

" _Wine_ ," Bekah said. "You're drinking. I can tell. I feel like I caught you just before your 'I'm supposed to be writing but I'm drinking instead' tweet went out."

"That's absolutely untrue," I said, closing Twitter on my phone without sending the tweet Bekah had perfectly predicted.

"Mmm."

"Bek, come on. Give me a break. I'm trying."

"Look, Lizzy, I'm just trying to help you. You asked me to do this, remember?"

"Yeah, yeah…" I swirled the dregs of my wine, sniffed it without interest, and finished the glass.

"So are you getting back to work tonight or what? Because my date fell through and if you aren't working _anyway_ , then I'll just come over and help you finish that bottle."

I looked at the bottle guiltily. My laptop seemed to be sending out, "You should be over here working, you lazy woman" vibes.

"Well…"

"I'm coming over," Bekah said decisively. "You aren't going to get anything else done anyway. In the morning I'll drag your ass out of bed and you write while I make us pancakes and mimosas like the good boyfriend neither of us has."

"Bek…" I protested, almost sounding whiny. What she proposed sounded great, but I knew I had a lot of work I needed to get done.

"Be there in twenty."

She hung up.

Bekah lived nearby in a townhouse that she shared with some of the other pre-med students from her school. She'd started as an architecture major, then swapped to kinesiology, and finally settled on pre-med.

"I'm going to save the shit out of some lives," she told me.

"BEK," I said. "So vulgar."

"Yeah yeah," she said, waving a hand dismissively.

I couldn't pretend I wasn't happy she was coming over. It let me off the hook for the night, and I didn't feel up to rereading and editing what I'd just written right now. But I did worry about her: Bekah may have been able to joke about our nonexistent love lives, but she'd just gotten out of a long relationship. Actually, other than the twins we'd dated during our sophomore year of high school (just to see what it was like to be twin sisters dating twin brothers), Bekah had never really had a relationship before Rob.

The two of them were crazy for each other. The whole family thought they were getting married. Bekah had even worn this little ring he'd given her. Not quite an engagement ring, not quite a promise ring, but it was special.

I knew things were bad when she stopped wearing it.

"Did you give it back to him?" I asked her. It had a very small (possibly real) sapphire in it.

"No," Bekah had said. Normally fiery and defiant, she'd seemed almost defeated. "He didn't ask for it back. He didn't want it back."

 _Just like he didn't want me_.

She didn't have to say it out loud. I knew what she meant.

When I opened the door she had two bottles of wine under one arm and a bag of caramel-filled chocolates in her other hand. "Let's get white-girl wasted and brainstorm blog ideas and stuff. You can write tomorrow."

Before we fell asleep, I poked her face until she opened her eyes.

" _What_?"

I giggled. "I thought you were supposed to help me come up with things to write or something. Be all brilliant or whatever."

The wine was thick on our breath, mingling over the sheets, the way we used to lie awake and whisper when we were little girls.

"I'll come up with something," Bekah said, sounding less slurred than me. "I'll let you know in the morning. Let's just sleep on it." She pulled the pillow over her head, pressing her cheek into the mattress. She pulled her legs up to her chest: an odd cocoon, the way she'd always slept.

The next morning we had matching headaches and I sliced some cucumber while Bekah popped a bottle of champagne.

"I'm not eating any fruit," she told me, holding the cork in one hand while the bottle fizzed in the other

"Cucumber isn't a fruit," I said.

"Still not eating it," she said. She took a sip of champagne from the bottle. Bekah grabbed the cinnamon and tossed some into the bowl before returning to stirring the batter.

"Good," I replied. "Because it's not for eating. It's for our puffy eyes."

Her next sip turned into a swig of champagne out of the bottle. "Uh—I'm _cooking_ , Lizzy. I don't have time to lie down with produce on my face and hope it makes me look like I'm eighteen again."

Bekah was a little obsessed with premature aging. We were only twenty-five, but she was always asking me to do things like ask the blogsphere about Botox or see if companies would send me products with retinol for me to review.

"Stop drinking the champagne. That would help."

"Right," she said. "Because I'm going to give up champagne." Her sarcasm was nearly palpable. "If you'd just add some orange juice already it would be socially acceptable. And you could take pictures of it or whatever." She waved a hand dismissively and licked some wayward pancake batter off her fingers before she returned to stirring the bowl enthusiastically.

"So do you want to hear what I came up with?"

I pulled a carton of orange juice out of the fridge. The expiration date was questionable. I swirled it around and sniffed. Eh. It would be fine.

I filled red wine glasses with champagne and topped them off with orange juice. "I'm listening."

"You need to get your groove back." Bekah pointed her spoon at me for emphasis, then shoved it back into the bowl and kept stirring.

"What does that mean?"

"You need to go somewhere you've never been. Do something you've never done."

"Cool," I said, sipping my mimosa. "Burning Man and cocaine. Perfect. Great idea. Thank you for your input."

She ignored me and dumped a spoonful of batter onto the hot griddle. It sizzled a little.

"Is that too hot?" I asked.

"It has to be something you care about. Something you like." She dumped another spoonful for a second pancake.

"Are you brainstorming, or…?"

"No, I'm pitching. I already came up with this. You're kind of ruining my pitch, honestly. And no—" She dumped a third spoonful for the next pancake. "The stove is not too hot. Let me worry about the pancakes."

"So what are you suggesting?" I asked. "I should shut down my blog and start an animal shelter or something?"

"Don't be stupid, Lizzy. You'd be a terrible shelter owner. _No_ , I'm talking about something really crazy." She flipped the trio of pancakes to reveal two that were perfectly golden-brown and one that was burnt.

I set down my glass and crossed my arms over my chest. "Fine. I'm listening."

Bekah held out the spatula with a flourish. "A Regency ball."

I stared at her. "A what?"

She rolled her eyes and turned back to her breakfast preparations, apparently annoyed with the confused reception her idea had gotten from me. "You love all that _Pride and Prejudice_ crap. There are tons of weirdos all over the world who put on balls and have croquet matches or whatever it is they did. You should dress up and go get your Jane Austen freak on. Go crazy. Take lots of pictures. Then write about it. People would love it. _I_ would love it. I don't even really like that stuff, but niche culture is fascinating. I'm telling you, Lizzy, this could be exactly the thing you need to get going again." She pointed the spatula at me. "No—actually, this _is_ the thing you need to get going again."

"That's crazy," I said.

"No," she said, handing me a plate that was a slightly charred short stack. "What would be crazy is giving up now. People love your blog. _You_ love your blog. And if you stop and get a 'real job' and resign yourself to working in a cubicle until you die after you've proven you can make a living sitting at home in leggings typing on a laptop that probably needs to be replaced, then there's no hope for the rest of us. So you have to do this."

"For The People," I said, joking.

"For The People," Bekah repeated. I'd never been handed syrup by a more serious-looking person before.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

I didn't know where to start in finding a Regency ball to attend, so I did the obvious thing: I Googled it.

Much to my surprise, there were plenty to choose from. And all kinds of different events too, some more involved than others.

"You have to go full out," Bekah insisted after I'd read some of the search results aloud. "Balls to the wall. Here—" She grabbed her phone and began tapping and scrolling. "You find a ball. I'll start looking for your dress."

"I am _not_ dressing up," I said.

Bekah made a face at me. "Of course you're dressing up. You're not a reporter. For God's sake, Lizzy. You can't just show up in jeans and be like, 'oh no thanks, no tea for me, I'm with the press. Don't worry, I won't use flash during the waltz.' This isn't some breaking piece for your editor. You have to _commit_."

"My readers will be fine with me just writing about it," I said. "I don't have to actually _do_ anything."

"Au contraire," Bekah said. "I'm one of your readers, and I am absolutely not fine with you just hanging around the ball like a creeper. I want a 'Ten Ways To Style Your Hair Like Elizabeth Bennet' entry. I want to read 'Five Things That Happened To Me When I Learned the Virginia Reel.' I want all the nitty gritty details, down to the corset and pantaloons. Don't take this from me."

"It wouldn't be the Virginia Reel," I said. "And we'd drink punch at a ball, not tea."

"Bring rum in case it isn't spiked," Bekah suggested. "Here, look at this one." She turned her phone around and showed me a blue gown with white lace. "What do you think? Good? Your boobs are better than mine, it should work for you."

"I dunno, Bek…do you really think people are going to want to read about this? Or are they just going to laugh at me?"

Bekah sighed and set her phone in her lap. "Lizzy. You built this thing from nothing. You learned all kinds of crap about web hosting and site analytics are whatever else you needed to know to run this thing. You posted about 'braids for summer' and people loved it. You did a dollar store bathroom makeover and they went nuts. You posted baking fails and people rushed out to see how hard they could crash and burn. You could write about pretty much anything and people would love it. Your problem now is that you aren't writing at all." She went back to scrolling on her phone. "So we just have to get you going again. Shake things up."

When I didn't answer she looked up. "Trust me," she said. "Now go get your credit card so we can buy this dress. I found a good one."

I rolled up to venue half an hour before the ball was supposed to kick off.

I had not thoroughly researched the parking situation before I left. By the time I'd thought of it I was already driving. Bekah had taken up the last of my last-minute preparations by rearranging the pearls in my hair and insisting we pose a few photos next to a window in my apartment that had what she called, "the most old-timey-looking curtains in this place." I hadn't swiped through the photos yet to see if any of them were salvageable.

I wanted to lose about fifteen pounds, so the pencil-like silhouette of this gown didn't seem to be doing me any favors. I was wearing shapewear to give myself as straight of a body as I could manage, and my hips seemed to be groaning in protest.

Bekah and I had also disagreed about the amount of cleavage that was appropriate for this venue.

"Less is not more," she insisted, grabbing the sides of the gown and readjusting.

I slapped her hands away. "For God's sake, Rebekah. I don't need the whole pirate wench vibe. I'm pretty sure the idea isn't to be popping out of this thing all night."

"Don't be such a prude," she replied, unphased. "Just make them look a little…I don't know. Perkier." She mimed propping my breasts up somewhere around my collarbones. "I doubt anyone is going to give you shit for it. You're not going to get turned away at the door by the morality police. God, it's just cleavage."

"Bekah." I pushed her hands away and they fell to her sides.

She let out a sigh, exasperated. " _Fine_. Don't listen to me. But if no one asks you to dance all night, don't blame me. On the other hand, if someone comes up to you and tells you you're a hussy or a trollop or they whisper about you behind their fans, then I expect full credit for it." She shook her finger at me.

I tugged at the top of the dress and readjusted till I felt more comfortable.

Bekah rolled her eyes. "Boobs are wasted on the modest," she said.

Now I was sitting in my car, feeling very strange in my long dress and dainty slippers, listening to hip hop on the radio. I was in line for the valet, wondering how much this little experiment was going to cost me; between the dress and admission to the event itself, it was starting to add up.

I couldn't see a price posted on the signs advertising the valet. They only said, "valet this way" in dainty script.

When it was my turn, a teenager wearing a rather impressive double-breasted coat and a top hat opened the door for me.

"Sorry—" I said, not making any move to get out of the car. "How much is this?" I looked at the sad pile of coins in my cup holder, a remnant of the last cash-only toll I'd made it through on pennies and dimes I'd tossed in frantically as the people waiting behind me grew more impatient.

"It's included, miss," he said, holding his hand out to me.

"Included with…"

"Your admission ticket. Wouldn't make sense to have keys jangling around the dance floor all evening, would it, mum? Be right ghastly, dontcha think?"

His accent was some kind of strange mashup between cockney and what sounded like every chimney sweep ever televised.

"Ahh, sure," I said.

He presented his gloved hand to me again, indicating that I was supposed to take it to help myself out of the car.

I hadn't been wearing my own gloves to drive, so I snatched them out of the front seat and gave a final glance at the car to see if I was forgetting anything. Notebook, pencil, phone for pictures. I couldn't think of anything else I needed to face the evening, but I felt like I was missing something.

It was probably just the strangeness of the wind whooshing up my legs. This dress was downright breezy.

"Here you are, miss," the valet said cheerily, presenting me with a ticket. "Just bring it back at the end of the evening and we'll bring it 'round faster than you can say, 'God save the Queen.'" He winked and drove my car away. I moved aside awkwardly to avoid the next car's exchange.

I had to give him some credit, though: he was a confident little guy, considering the dopey way his coat fit, and his hat fell over his acne-covered forehead. I should probably adopt some of that same bravado if I wanted to have any interesting interactions tonight. Or at least anything worth writing about later.

 _Unseemly to have keys jangling all evening,_ I thought. I would not have considered that detail. I made a mental note to include it in my retelling of the evening's events.

I watched my car disappear from sight and began to move toward the crowd gathered nearby. I'd had a vision of walking up a long garden path, admiring Pemberley or Netherfield or whatever, but between the cars crunching the gravel as the valets drove them away, and the tents in a field, it felt more like a themed wedding than a night in the 19th Century.

It occurred to me that there were probably going to be a lot of moments like this tonight, so I took out the small notebook I'd brought for this very purpose and jotted it down. I also had a pencil that I figured I could get away with using for filling out my dance card or whatever. It was about the length of my palm: not convenient for writing, but small enough to be unobtrusive.

I hesitated again, then thought of the valet's confidence and commitment to his act. I held my shoulders back. "I can do this," I said aloud to myself.

"Do what?" a voice said.

I turned to find a small, round-faced girl with auburn ringlets looking at me with a friendly smile. She had a model-perfect gap between her two front teeth, and though her dress didn't seem to fit quite right, with its uneven hemline and neckline that seemed slight off-kilter, the ivory jacquard suited her nicely.

"Um," I said, not expecting that anyone would hear me muttering to myself. "Just…" I glanced down and realized I had not donned my gloves. "Put these on!" I said, holding them up.

"Good idea," she said. "Do you need help? Here, let me hold your things." She took the notepad, phone, pencil, and valet ticket from me so my hands were freed up to slide on the elbow-length white gloves I'd brought with me.

"Those are nice," she said encouragingly to me as I struggled to pull them up and straighten the fabric.

"Yours are beautiful," I told her sincerely, admiring the little pearl buttons at the tops of each glove.

"Thanks," she said. "I added the buttons myself and I really like the way it looks. That was what got me into sewing. I made this dress," she added, swaying a little sheepishly.

"It's lovely. And it looks perfect on you." Perfect was an overstatement, but it really was a nice dress. I certainly couldn't have made it.

She flushed with pleasure at the compliment. "Oh, well, it's nothing. I taught myself. You'll see lots more dresses that other ladies have made that are much more well-constructed than mine. I'm a beginner."

"Not sure what that makes me, then. I can't sew at all. A nonstarter, I guess."

She giggled. "No no no, you're _fine._ We should go inside. Do you want me to hold your things for you?"

Not really. I'd much rather hang onto my semi-mocking notes and cell phone myself.

"You'll look really out of place if you're carrying around a phone," she said, upon seeing my hesitation.

"Where you hide your stuff?" I asked. For some reason this was not a problem I had anticipated despite all my other careful preparations.

"Here." She held up a small bag, held shut by a drawstring and attached to her wrist.

"I didn't even think of that," I said.

"Well let me help you out then!" She looked thrilled to be useful. "I just have some lip balm and stuff in here. There's plenty of room."

"All right," I said. "For a little while. I won't impose on you all evening."

"It's no trouble! I'm Maria."

"Lizzy." I stuck out my hand to shake hers. She grasped only the tips of my fingers and sort of pinched at them before releasing and packing my phone and notebook comfortably into her purse-thing.

 _What were they called?_ I wondered to myself. _Reticule?_ I should have done a _Pride and Prejudice_ re-read before I went through with this madness, but it had been a fast-and-furious seventy-two hours since my twin had come up with this crazy idea. The last three days had been a blur of online shopping and expedited shipping charges to get me here as fast as possible.

"Lizzy is the _perfect_ name!" she exclaimed. "Tell me your last name isn't Bennet." She giggled again. "Oh, wouldn't that just be wonderful!"

"It isn't," I said. "But it would be a nice coincidence."

"I wish _my_ name were Lizzy Bennet," she sighed, wrapping her arm around me and beginning to saunter toward the tent. "Or rather, Lizzy Darcy!" She laughed, louder this time, as though she'd made the most clever, original Austenite joke the world had ever known. Maybe I should reconsider my decision to use my real name.

As we walked arm-in-arm, Maria chattering along like we were the oldest of friends instead of complete strangers who'd met only minutes before, I took the opportunity to examine my surroundings.

It was late summer—still warm—and the event coordinators had pitched two enormous, white tents in a field. We were ushered into the smaller of the two tents by some Cinderella-esque footmen, and directed to a table where two gray-haired ladies with feathers in their hair checked our tickets.

"Have a nice evening, dear," one said as she handed me my ticket stub with a smile.

"Thank you!" Maria chirped, answering for both of us. I tucked my ticket stub into my bra before Maria could offer to keep it. I could use it for pictures or something later on the blog, and didn't want it to get lost.

I got my first good look at the interior of the tent as Maria was tucking her own ticket stub away for safekeeping. She was saying something about scrapbooking but I wasn't listening.

The tent was lit with large lights draped in fabric so the room was bright enough to see the floor but dark enough that it sort of felt like an old dance hall. In the tent beside us, I could peer over just enough to catch a glimpse of the interior. In the larger tent were tables set with candelabras whose fake candles flickered merrily. The flowers on the table were real, however, and there was a faint scent of lavender floating through the air. So one was for dancing, and one was for dining. My fingers itched to make a note. I didn't want to forget anything.

"Lizzy."

I turned at the sound of Maria's voice. I'd been staring around the room, not paying attention to her at all.

"Come _on_. I see someone I know. Do you know anyone here?" She tugged at my arm again, reminding me of children on a playground, who made friends without a hint of self-consciousness.

"Just you," I replied.

It occurred to me that maybe I should have brought a friend. If I'd done that I'd always have someone I could talk to if I wanted to avoid interacting with strangers. But wasn't meeting people who went to these for fun instead of work kind of the point? It was probably for the best. Bekah was definitely not a viable option. Instead of helping me or taking pictures, she'd just have been monitoring my cleavage all night.

Maria was half-dragging me to the other side of the tent, where two girls around our age were chatting.

"I'll introduce you," she said.

"That's okay," I said. "It's a little crowded over there. Let me grab that notebook from you and I'll meet back up with you whenever you're finished."

She didn't protest, and fished around in her reticule until she found the notebook and pencil. She kept my cell phone though, presumably for insurance. She didn't need to worry. I'd be back; I hadn't found anyone or anything else that made it seem worthwhile to ditch her.

I scribbled some quick notes in the little, brown pad.

 _Old ladies like feathers. Younger ones like pearls_

 _Dudes can't decide if hats on or off inside tent_

 _Fake candles, real flowers_

 _3 lavender_

 _Underwear?_

The last question was one I was still wondering about.

Bekah and I had made a hasty search for "undergarments women Regency" as we were piecing together my costume. We never found a definitive answer; we just ended up reading about petticoats until we got bored and gave it up.

"They probably just all go commando," Bekah had said. "Couple of dresses under your dress, plus pantaloons or whatever? Yeah, that's plenty of fabric to protect your virtue."

"What do you think they do at this ball, though?" I asked. "It's not like they were trying to decide between bikini or boy cut or a thong two hundred years ago."

"Fair point," Bekah said. "This is definitely something you should ask about while you're there."

I made a face. "Just ask some stranger what underwear she's wearing?"

"Yup," Bekah said, abandoning the quest for answers about undies.

Now, standing in the ballroom/tent, I considered this. The grass beneath the tent was covered in vinyl flooring that made a gentle tapping noise as I shuffled my feet uncertainly.

Ah, what the hell. Couldn't hurt to ask.

"Hey," I said to the girl next to me in an undertone. She glanced at me, frowned, and looked away.

" _Hey_ ," I hissed, more insistently.

"Are you talking to me?" she asked.

"Yes," I said. "I have a question."

"What?" she snapped.

I wasn't sure why she was so pissy. It wasn't like I had interrupted anything. She was standing alone, nursing a drink in a plastic goblet.

"Are you wearing underwear?" I asked.

Her shock was so complete I could have sworn for a second I'd been transported back in time. She actually gasped and laid her hand over her heart, looking both very shocked and very pretty. The move was so delicate I had to wonder if she'd practiced it in a mirror.

"Are you serious?" she said.

"What? I couldn't really get a straight answer when I looked up online, and you seem to have this whole thing down. So I was just wondering if you were wearing a thong or whatever."

She seemed to consider answering for a moment, then gave a small "hmph!" of disgust and walked away.

"Geeze, rude," I muttered under my breath, knowing perfectly well I would have probably blown off the same question were it directed at me. I doubted I would have done it with such graceful, Regency, ladylike finesse, however, and for that I was a little jealous. Where had she learned that? Was she some kind of shut-in whose only contact with the outside world was these weird balls?

A breeze blew my petticoats against my legs and reminded me that I was one of the weirdos at the ball now, so I might want to tone down my inner hypocrite. There was also a fine line between, "isn't this improbable but somewhat adorable?!" and "can you believe these losers?" that I always tried to strike in my blog whenever I wrote about things I didn't have experience with.

"There you are!"

Maria appeared at my side once more.

"Do they have drinks here?" I asked her, thinking of the glass underwear girl had been carrying.

"Oh yes," she said. "The punch inside is nonalcoholic, and usually not very good." She wrinkled up her nose in disapproval. "But outside they set up a little bar area. Do you want me to show you? I can show you where it is—I'll go with you and get a little glass of wine or something. I don't drink much, but I really love Moscato."

I fought to keep my face neutral. Moscato. Fucking grape juice.

"Sounds great," I said, hoping I sounded passably sincere. I also hoped they had something better than wine sweet enough to pass for a liquified candy bar. Though at this point, I reminded myself, anything was better than doing this dead sober. And, if nothing else, I could use it for story material.

Enough Pollyanna bullshit. Who was I kidding? I hoped there was liquor.

Maria looped her arm through mine again, further solidifying our best-friends-for-life vibe that she'd been putting off all evening. We weaved our way through the crowd toward the back of the tent.

There were two small steps down from the back of the tent to the little patio where they'd set up a bar. It looked like any other corporate, hotel convention center bar I'd seen before—just tables draped in black cloth—surrounded by people in period costumes. Someone had strung fairy lights around the tables to designate the approved stand-around-and-drink area. The juxtaposition of the old with the new wasn't badly done, but it was a little disorienting.

The flooring they set up inside for the ballroom area had not extended to the outdoor bar, and we all mingled on gravel similar to the other side. It was loose under my feet, and I was glad I wasn't wearing heels. The dainty slippers didn't provide much protection against the tiny stones digging into the soles of my feet, but at least I didn't have to stand on my tiptoes all night to keep from tipping over.

The bar area was a little crowded, so I moved to the side to let others get in line.

"I'm going to wait over there," I told Maria, pointing to the corner nearest to us.

I found myself facing away from the tent and the line to the bar, looking down a rather alarmingly steep precipice. A small creek trickled past.

I turned around to face the bar area again, watching the ladies mingling in their dresses. They stood in small flocks, waiting for their gentlemen callers to bring them drinks. Maria was one of the few people in line.

I craned my neck to see if she had advanced in line. Our eyes met and she waved at me. She was mouthing something.

" _What_?" I mouthed back, unable to read her lips.

She mouthed whatever it was more slowly, raising her arms to gesture.

I shook my head, frowning, to indicate that I couldn't understand her. But as I moved forward, I bumped into a group of women who suddenly began laughing uproariously, one of them cackling so hard that she stepped back, off the gravel, and bumped into me.

I tried to steady her, but as she straightened, I stumbled on the gravel. I caught myself and thought I had my balance. Just as I thought the moment was over, the earth gave way beneath me. I was on the edge, then suddenly I wasn't.

Before I realized what was happening, I was flying—falling—straight toward the water, too shallow to catch me.

The world went black.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

"I've got her!"

And whoever it was did indeed, have me. I had been spinning, spiraling downward, if not to my death, at least to an unexpected and very unwelcome stint in the hospital—when, suddenly, I wasn't. I had anticipated hitting the shallow water hard, finding myself in terrible pain. Instead I found myself in the arms of a tall, broad-chested man with the warmest brown eyes I'd ever seen.

 _Hello, nineteenth century_ , I thought. I felt dizzy. I should have come to one of these balls a long time ago.

"Are you all right?" he was asking me.

I meant to make a delicate little, "mmhm" type noise, but it came out rather garbled-sounding, like a chihuahua begging for a treat.

"Are you hurt?" he asked, more insistent. He had brown hair. It was lighter than his eyes, wavy and thick. One piece had fallen over his forehead when he caught me.

"No…" I said.

Suddenly I was upright, and he had drawn back. The cold air that rushed in to replace his warm, solid frame made me shiver. I stumbled a bit, and he was at my side again, putting his arm around me.

"She's all right," he announced to the small crowd that had gathered.

"You poor _thing_ ," cooed one of the grey-haired women standing nearby. "It's so warm, it's really a wonder we haven't all fainted by now."

The two ladies beside her nodded in agreement. One whipped out her fan and began batting it at herself for emphasis.

"No," I said. "It's not too warm." I struggled to explain. They were looking at me sympathetically, the one with the fan moving it almost dangerously fast. "I just—when I caught you—I tripped on the edge." I turned to look over my shoulder and froze. There was no cliff. There was no creek. There was no place for me to fall, other than to sink to the ground in a faint.

"What…?" I wondered aloud.

"I'm going to take her inside," the man was saying, wrapping an arm around my back. He began to move me away from the worried faces, steering me gently yet possessively.

"I'm fine," I told him as we walked. "Really."

He shook his head firmly. "You're white as a sheet," he said.

"Missed a couple of sessions in the tanning bed," I joked. My pale complexion had never seen the inside of a tanning bed, and whenever I tried to get a tan, I turned red as a lobster, peeled for a week, and returned to my usual shade of not-tan. He probably didn't want to know all that, but sometimes I made bad jokes to ease the tension. It didn't usually help, and this time was no exception.

He slowed, glancing down at me. A slight frown wrinkled his brow. "And you're talking nonsense. What does that even mean, Elizabeth? Tanning bed…" He shook his head, guiding me away from where he'd caught me. "Come on—Maria is worried about you. She lost track of you after the last set and has been looking for you."

I still felt a little dizzy, but his mention of Maria jolted me to some semblance of awareness. "Oh _Maria_!" I exclaimed. "Oh no—I was supposed to wait for her. She was at the bar. She was getting a drink, or two drinks, or—"

"Enough," he said firmly. "Lizzy. Calm down. Stop yammering until you can sit down and drink some punch."

"Wait," I said. "How do you know my name?"

He stopped walking now, and we stood together, his arm still around me. I didn't know what that old woman was talking about: it was not too warm outside, but the heat I felt from his body was enough to make me feel like I might begin to sweat. In a good way, though.

"Elizabeth," he said again. "Lizzy—"

I stared, mesmerized, up into his eyes. He was still frowning somewhat, looking concerned, but his eyes were absolutely delicious: velvety brown flecked with gold. They made me think of indulgences like champagne and chocolate-covered strawberries. _My word._

" _There_ you are!" Maria flung her arms around me, knocking the handsome stranger out of the way. "I was so worried! One moment we were standing together, next thing I know, you are just _gone_ , just like that, and the set's about to begin, and I'm to stand up with Lord Darby—" She cut herself off and stood back to look at me.

"Heavens, you're so pale. Henry, don't you see how pale she is?"

"I do," the man agreed. "I was just taking her inside to have something to drink before you nearly knocked her over again."

"You're right. Whatever was I thinking? Of course you need something to calm your nerves. I can't believe you fainted! I'm so sorry," Maria said. She gave me a more delicate squeeze and pulled back.

I was about to demand that the two of them quit screwing around. Maria and I had met less than an hour ago, and this guy—Henry—was acting like the three of us were great friends. I had never seen him before in my life.

Which, to be honest, was a damn shame, because he was wonderful to look at. He must have spent some money on his coat; it was tailored to fit him perfectly, without any tugging or pulling of the fabric across his broad chest and shoulders.

"Come along," he said, shuttling me along again.

We were headed back toward the tents, presumably for the punch that was apparently going to cure all my ailments. It was at least supposed to help me recover from the swoon I didn't remember having moments earlier.

The first thing I noticed was that the fairy lights were gone, but there were still small lights floating through the air, winking periodically. Fireflies.

Next I saw that the sky had gone dark. The first stars were beginning to glimmer in the sky. Had it been that close to dark when we first came outside? Confused, I turned my head back and forth, taking in my surroundings. What else had changed?

I stopped. No bar either.

And, strangest of all, no tent. They had been right behind us. Maria and I had stepped out of the smaller onto the gravel, where we had gotten in line for the bar. But they weren't there anymore. Both of them were just…gone.

Behind us was a magnificent brick house, three stories tall, one side covered in lush ivy that wound its way up the side, trimmed back neatly from each window. Those same windows were awash with warm light that spilled out onto us in the garden.

Wait—garden? There hadn't been a garden here before. I'd been looking down at a babbling creek that was now entirely absent. In its place were a collection of well-maintained hedges and a fountain beside it.

"That's it, keep walking. You need to keep moving to regain your balance," Henry said, urging me along.

We went inside. The floors were a beautiful, dark wood, and the house was filled with candles. The light flickered onto the faces of the partygoers, making them seem rosy and welcoming as they laughed together in small groups.

Then I had a truly insane thought: _I've fallen back in time._

But that was preposterous. People didn't just go to Regency balls on a whim and find themselves thrown back in time three hundred years. That was the premise of a made-for-TV movie. Or a dream.

Was I just confused? Maybe I was asleep.

"Here, take this." Maria handed me a small cup of punch. Unlike all the drinks I'd seen before I fell off the no longer existent cliff, this one was not in a plastic container. It was real glass. My hands trembled slightly, and Henry lifted his hand beneath mine to steady it.

I looked up at him. "Drink it slowly," he said.

His hand barely touched mine, but the warmth of it through my glove was reassuring in the face of the questions swirling in my mine.

Why was he acting like he knew me? How was I here? Where was _here_? How was this happening?

A variety of equally crazy ideas sprang into my head: the old woman who'd taken my ticket at the entrance was a witch who'd placed a spell on me. Or Maria was a fairy in disguise who was practicing her time-traveling spells on me. I was being filmed for some weird new TV show. It was all a dream, and I'd wake up any minute.

It had to be at least one of those, as crazy as they all seemed. Time travel was the least probable.

 _Time travel._ What in the world. I wobbled slightly, and Maria and Henry both put a hand on my arm at the same time.

"I'm going to get you more punch," Henry said. He took the cup from my hand. I hadn't realized that I had emptied it already.

"Stand right there," he ordered. "Don't go anywhere. Don't move from that spot. And for heaven's sake, don't faint again."

I watched him walk away, slightly openmouthed. He was so _bossy_. What gave him the right?

"Maria," I said. "Is he _really_ your brother?"

They seemed so different, more in demeanor than looks. Although they didn't really favor one another, it was more the confidence that Henry seemed to exude that was so unlike his sister. From what I had seen so far, Maria was friendly, open, and often apologetic. Henry was serious and completely dogged.

Maria laughed merrily. "You wouldn't be the first one to ask. We are very unlike one another. But I have mother and father's red hair, and he looks _just_ like our grandfather, so I guess we're related, even if we didn't end up with many of the same features."

I blinked and shook my head slightly, as though the motion might clear away all my confusion.

"Why didn't you mention him sooner?" I asked.

"Sooner than what, silly?" she said. "You knew I had a brother, even if you didn't meet him last Season."

She correctly interpreted my blank look and elaborated: "When you came to visit last year," she said. "I know we went to so very many balls and all manner of parties, but surely you didn't completely forget that Henry existed. People asked after him constantly. Or so it seemed." She giggled a little. "But he was only away for a few weeks helping Uncle Lucius with the estate in the south."

"Right," I said, as if any of that had made sense to me. "Of course."

Henry returned bearing another cup of punch.

"Drink this," he said. "If you aren't feeling better after this one we ought to leave. Actually…" He seemed to be examining me very closely. I felt flushed. "We probably ought to leave anyway so you can rest properly. We'll call the doctor to come and see you in the morning."

"I don't think I need a doctor," I protested.

"That's not your decision," Henry replied.

I did not appreciate his brusque tone. I also wondered what would happen when we left. Is that when they'd bring my car around to the front and it would be revealed that I was the butt of some rather unfunny joke?

Thinking of my car reminded me of the valet, and my hand immediately went to my breast, remembering that I had stuck the ticket down the front of my dress earlier. I could feel the paper there. I wanted to examine the ticket but decided not to stick my hand into my cleavage to retrieve it while Maria and Henry were staring at me as if they were just waiting for me to faint again.

"Go on," Henry said to Maria then. "You were to dance with Lord Darby next, were you not? I will wait here with Lizzy until you are finished. Then I think we ought to leave."

Having felt the paper against my skin made me feel somewhat more grounded, reassuring me that this was all some kind of bizarre misunderstanding and not an accidental foray into the past.

I realized Henry was looking at me. I cleared my throat delicately and pretended in a less-than-graceful gesture that I'd been readjusting my gown, rather than the more embarrassing truth: that I'd grabbing my boob to see if a valet ticket was still in my bra.

"Would you like to dance?" he asked.

I had not known how to dance in the twenty-first century and I doubted that I would be able to manage it in the nineteenth century either.

"Oh, I can't," I said. "I'm…" My brain searched for more appropriate term than, _feeling super fucked up right now_.

"Woozy," I settled on. "I feel quite faint."

"Of course you do," he said. "I'm so sorry. I should not have asked." He cleared his throat and looked away, the first glimpse of uncertainty I'd witnessed from him all evening.

"You look very lovely," he said then, a little awkwardly.

"Thank…you…?"

I felt that flush again, a little rush of pleasure at his words, but I was still too confused to enjoy the compliment fully. I should tell Bekah that the dress she'd chosen was working for me. But when? And how? The thought of opening my laptop and curling up on the couch to write about this night was beginning to feel increasingly unlikely.

I wanted very much in that moment to snap a surreptitious picture of Henry and send it to Bekah. She'd lose her mind.

"I'm going to get more punch," Henry announced. "You should sit while I'm gone. Don't dance with anyone. You're quite right—that's not a good idea."

"Really digging that punch, huh?" I said. "It's pretty good, but maybe not three-full-cups good."

"Sit down, Elizabeth," he said, ignoring me.

I plopped down in the seat nearest to where we were standing.

"Please stay there," he said. "I won't be long."

Once he walked away, I felt rather invisible. People walked around me, chatting and laughing over the music. No one seemed to notice me.

Off to the side, standing beside the grand wooden staircase, a group of older ladies gathered around a tall, thin man standing two steps above them. They had to crane their necks rather comically to look at him, but he didn't seem to notice.

"She's an heiress," the one woman said. "From America. Her manners leave something to be desired, but that's Americans for you."

"Indeed," agreed the other.

"Her father owns railroads or steel for building railroads," added the gentleman.

One of the women drew her teacup toward her, visibly offended. "Can you imagine? To make such money off dirty metals and be considered a member of polite society! Times certainly have changed."

They all nodded severely.

The man spoke again, and the ladies leaned their heads back to look at him. "Baron Leigh has been known to keep…" he trailed off. "Let's called it _mixed company_ …from time to time."

"Nothing like his father," one of the women tutted.

"God rest his soul," another chimed in immediately, clutching her teacup nervously.

"The daughter is a lovely girl," the third said. "Maria, isn't it? Shame her brother is running things already, before he could learn to do business the same way as his father."

"The girls have been friends for years," said the teacup lady. "Her parents sent Miss Ross here for her first Season. I imagine she'll be here longer this time—I heard her mother told her not to come home until she was engaged to an earl."

This was very funny, for some reason: they all laughed together.

"Can you imagine?" said the woman concerned with manners. "An American princess of steel, married to one of the oldest families in England."

"Preposterous," the tall man declared.

I leaned further back into my seat to avoid detection. So Henry was a baron, and I was…

An heiress? Me?

I decided this must be a dream. With my luck I'd never fall back in time and discover I was an heiress. I'd be a scullery maid, or the wife of an alcoholic chimney sweep or some other bullshit.

"What are you doing?"

I jumped, startled. Henry was standing in front of me holding two cups of punch.

"Stop lurking in corners," he said, handing me a cup.

"You told me to stay here," I replied before taking a sip.

He seemed amused at this. "So I did," he said, lips curving into a smile before he took a sip of the punch himself.

Maria returned to us then, flushed and beaming from ear to ear. "Lord Darby said he'll call on us this week," she announced. "Oh it's been such a splendid evening—I'm so sorry you aren't feeling well, Lizzy."

Henry had plucked the punch cup from my hands before I realized it and helped me to my feet. Flanked by the siblings, they led me from the ballroom. We passed the gossipy group standing by the stairs and they gave us the barest of smiles. One of the women merely pursed her lips as we walked by them, then gave a little huff as she looked away.

As we walked outside and waited for them to bring our carriage around (apparently we had arrived in a carriage), I had another crazy thought: if falling once sent me here, would falling twice send me back?

I stared at the two horses that were pulling the carriage, looking between them and the footman. Dismayed and more disoriented than ever, I knew I had to at least try to put an end to all this.

Guided by Maria, we began to move toward our ride. Before I could lose my nerve, I jammed my slippered foot as hard as I could into the gravel and lost my balance. The momentum sent me flying.

This time there was no one to catch me.

I fell hard. I had tried to freefall, as though that were the trick to sending myself back into the twenty-first century, but instead of falling through time, I'd just fallen to the ground. Instinct had taken over at some point, and I'd flung out my hands to protect myself.

My hands and knees felt consumed by a hot flash of pain. Groaning, I rolled onto my side as a worried crowd began to clamor around me for the second time that night.

I opened my eyes and saw the ivy-covered house above me. The light from the windows cast a warm glow onto the cuts on my hands. I closed my eyes again briefly. No tents. No valet stand. I was still here—wherever _here_ was.

In the mass of faces crowded above me, I spotted a familiar one: round and reassuring, looking extremely worried.

"Maria!" I gasped.

"She's all right!" she exclaimed. "She's all right—Henry, quick, please—help her up. We must take her home. She's _bleeding_!"

"I thought you said I was all right," I said. I didn't sound slurred, but I didn't sound certain of myself either.

"Hush," Henry said to me, and I scowled at him. Asshole.

He helped me into a carriage and Maria settled in beside me, fussing over my torn gown and the cuts on my hands.

"What a terrible night!" Maria exclaimed. "I know I said it was good, but dancing with Lord Darby is not enough good to offset the badness of all your injuries. Poor Lizzy!"

"I'll have the doctor come out tomorrow," Henry said, leaning back in his seat across from us in the carriage. "No need for all the hysterics."

"Oh I hope he drives quickly," Maria said, turning my hands over again to look at the cuts and gravel scrapings across my skin. My pride stung worse than my minor injuries, but I had to admit they didn't look very good.

"You'll feel so much better once we're home and we can get you cleaned up," Maria assured me.

Home. So I was to go with them to their home.

I glanced out the window as the house grew smaller in the distance, wondering if my car was parked out there somewhere in the night.


End file.
